


In Times of Plenty

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Tobirama contemplates peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: Hashirama has always been his weakness.





	In Times of Plenty

**Author's Note:**

> _A prompt fill from Tumblr:_   
Can I have some either HashiTobi or MadaIzu #90: “Remember when we were little?” :D

Izuna is barely recognizable as he trots across the street, arms laden with scrolls and a persimmon latched between his teeth.

Tobirama absently notes the stream of juice that drips down his chin like blood as the Uchiha looks both ways and dashes through a line of wagons—the village’s provisions from the rice paddies to the west. It’s been interesting to observe the same clever prowess that was once pitted against him now directed towards carving a swath through the rigors of diplomacy and infrastructure.

Strange.

Somehow in the past year, his erstwhile rival has turned into someone to be admired. Maybe not a friend or confidant—there are far too many leagues of blood between them for that—but close enough that it’s mostly a matter of semantics at this point.

The black ponytail flaps out behind him like a standard and slips between two groups of chatting civilians. When they pass, Izuna is gone. To the tower to amend the standing orders for grains, no doubt.

Tobirama was perhaps a bit too generous with his estimations of how much imported long-grain rice to contract for.

It’s not the first time.

He grunts and returns his attention to the progression of the cavalcade.

Oxen groan and axles squeal under a load so substantial it drives ruts into the hard-packed clay. He remembers lean times and hungry nights—a burden that no child will know in this village so long as he draws breath. Though, even if he were to fall, Izuna would not tolerate any lapse or oversight in his absence.

It’s nice to know that Konohagakure’s safety, at least in this, doesn’t rest on his shoulders alone.

As deep as he is in his thoughts, a familiar bloom of chakra takes him by surprise as it sidles up close behind him. Sun-kissed hands flash settle on his shoulders, just within his periphery, and tug him back beneath the eave of a half-constructed building.

The odd flicker of a henge slots into place.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Hashirama says. His voice is soft in reverence, but Tobirama can hear him clearly over the din of the market—can feel his brother’s heat pressed against him even through their clothes.

“And what would that be?” he asks, feigning disinterest.

“Peace,” Hashirama replies, the rumble in his chest resonating between them.

Tobirama sighs.

He shifts his weight and allows Hashirama to guide him to rest against his chest, accepts the long arms that bracket him in and hold him close. He toes the line of impropriety more than most, but he’s usually cognizant enough to reign in his impulses in public at least. Still. Hashirama has always been his weakness.

Crowded streets or no, he will not forgo a single instance of his brother’s affections.

“There’s still much work to be done,” he deflects, swallowing against the sudden dryness of his mouth.

Hashirama hums noncommittally, but otherwise ignores the criticism.

“Do you remember when we were little? Just after Kawarama’s death?” he asks, apropos of nothing. In the pause, he plucks at the hems of Tobirama’s sleeves and pets the hair of his forearms against the grain.

Tobirama tenses.

They had agreed never to discuss their lost brothers. It was a wound too deep to ever heal, best left in the dark where the world was blind to its festering. Why it would be brought up now is beyond him.

“Anija, please. You know I dislike—”

Hashirama notes his discomfort and is quick to embrace him more fully. He kisses the side of Tobirama’s head, his neck. Even his chakra folds around them, as sweet as spring.

“Shh, Otouto, listen,” he chides gently. “You were the first one to point out how stupid our forefathers were. You were the one who said that a pact could be made to—”

“‘To avoid extraneous conflict.’ Yes, I’m aware of my own words,” Tobirama snaps. “Is there a point to this?”

“Look around,” Hashirama commands, though with none of the clout of his orders on the battlefield. It’s a quiet thing, more like an entreaty. “This is all because of you, Tobi. I may have been the one to beat the idea into Madara’s head, but it came from you. Every good idea I’ve ever had has come from you.”

The confession finds a home deep in Tobirama’s soul. It’s a painful blow. He would curl up around the hurt and viciously smother the hope that blooms bright as a sunflower if not for his brother’s steady arms around him.

One hard-won breath.

Two.

“And yet you remain an idiot,” he manages.

Hashirama laughs. “Maybe.”

A plume of dust floats about in the caravan’s wake, sprinkling down to fill in the wheel-tracks and coming to rest across the surface of Hashirama’s henge. It obscures Tobirama’s vision—the only viable explanation for the way the world around him wavers.

He blinks quickly to clear his eyes.

“Thank you for standing by me,” Hashirama presses. He eases them apart and slowly turns Tobirama until they stand chest to chest. His thumbs sweep along the crest of Tobirama’s cheekbones and trace the curve of his jaw.

“My faithful Otouto.”

The intensity of his regard is overwhelming. So much so that Tobirama tries to avert his face—resorting to closing his eyes when Hashirama continues to cup his cheeks with gentle, but unflappable force.

“I love you. More than you realize.” Hashirama whispers between them.

Tobirama can smell the spice of ginger on his breath—can feel the caress of it growing nearer. His own chest fails to rise. Lungs burn as he suffocates on the sudden reality of being allowed everything he’s ever wanted.

“Then you’re both an idiot and a fool,” he chokes out, reaching up to hook his hands loosely around Hashirama’s wrists. They’re warm, solid, and speak to the insurmountable strength that underlies his brother’s resolve in all things.

“Maybe,” Hashirama repeats, that single word thick enough to make Tobirama’s heart race.

“Ani—”

Before he can finish, Hashirama swallows his protest in a kiss—heavy and demanding—and Tobirama is lost. 

  
  



End file.
